Circa 2033
by poke12101
Summary: This is an entry into a little writing contest on steam. I went overboard and pulled an all-nighter on this one. It's probably the longest entry in the contest, and probably has lots of spelling and grammatical flaws towards the end. I didn't really revise this, this was pretty much all in one go.


Circa 2033

Mathew couldn't wait, how could he? After twenty years underground, trapped in the near endless claustrophobia of train tunnels and stations, he was finally going to see it. He had been waiting his entire life for this day, for the chance to finally see with his own eyes a world which everyone around him had claimed to protect him from. It was a place that had always been so close, and yet had always remained far from his reach. It had many names: The Outworld, The Top, The City, The Wasteland, The Graveyard, but Mathew had always ever called it The Surface.

A knock to the door of his makeshift room caught his attention. His vision was fuzzy still, he couldn't pin the voice easily to any one particular individual, but it rang with a true familiarity.

"Matthew? Are you alright? Damn, you look like you might need a little more sleep. Sit up, you'll feel better."

Mathew let out a sigh as he sat up in bed, his feet landing on the cold station floor. He shook his head in the hopes of clearing it, and began to slip on his worn leather boots.

"Oh, and in case you didn't realize it, he's coming today."

Mathew would recognize that dry wit anywhere, it was as unmistakable as the guitar mounted on his wall. It didn't mean he appreciated it anymore this morning than any other. Mathew grabbed his pillow and threw it at the man in the doorway. His friend caught it awkwardly against his chest and began to laugh.

"Oh, come on now! I know you're excited, heck, going topside is almost all you ever talk about these days. Now come on, I'll be waiting with your gear by the armory."

The man throws back the pillow and Mathew catches it with one hand, tossing it aside with a small smirk. That was just like Michael, always poking fun first thing in the morning. Mathew looks up to give a well crafted retort only to see his ship had already sailed. He frowns at the vacant doorway, finishes tying his laces, gathers his ammo, and walks right out of his room without a second thought or hesitation.

His first destination was easy enough for him to figure out: Coffee. If coffee was never a destination in the station before today, it certainly was one right now. Mathew followed the gentle aroma of his favorite breakfast of choice to the "restaurant" of the station. There, amid the small collection of mismatched tables and chairs, he made a bee line for the counter and knocked on the poorly crafted wooden surface with his bare fist.

He had forgotten his gloves, again. It was always something wasn't it?

Mathew quietly decided against the idea of going back for something as stupid as gloves. He had more important things to collect, and barely any time left to do it all. The elderly man behind the counter looked to him with a disapproving eye, then smirked and pulled the coffee pot off of the stove.

"I'll never understand how you can drink this shit."

The man repeated himself, as he did nearly every day, pouring a freshly brewed cup all the while.

"In my day, we never used to drink this instant pre-ground shit. That's why the scavengers keep finding it all the time, because no one wanted it in those days."

The man places the cup on the counter and Mathew eagerly takes it. He lets the aroma fill his lungs before bringing the cup to his lips.

"As it is, irradiated to sludge, burned to ash, and far past any reasonable shelf life. Well, let's just say I'm not the only one that looks at you funny when you drink it."

Mathew rolled his eyes at the same spiel he had heard every day of his coffee drinking life, and he gave the same answer.

"Tell someone who cares old man."

It was far from an original response, and it had probably started to hurt his own ears at least five years ago, but it was all a part of the deeply familiar routine. Down here in the station, familiarity, routine, and normalness dominated in a way that grated on his nerves, but Mathew never missed an opportunity to carry the same daily conversations. Well, he never usually missed an opportunity. Today was finally going to be different.

Mathew slammed down his coffee with as much speed as he could muster without simply burning himself. Leaving the cup on the table, he dashed off in search of his friend. His next stop was the armory where his friend Michael worked. Halfway there, he almost ran right into him, stopping just in time to avoid a collision. Michael tried to hide the surprise on his face with a smile and joke.

"Hey, where's the fire?"

It didn't distract Mathew nearly as much as what his friend was actually holding. A backpack, a gasmask, and all the amenities of surface survival in one package. Michael rolled his eyes at the site of Mathew's staring.

"Hey, should I get you two a room? Come on, quit staring and take it. It's got everything you need: Flashlight, Handheld Recharging Kit, Gasmask, Medical kits, spare filters, some real gloves, the works."

Mathew opened up the pack and looked through it with a wide smile, a smile which slowly began to fade. Realization hit Mathew like a ton of bricks.

"Where's the gun?"

Michael sighed and shook his head.

"We're running low. I wasn't cleared to give you one. Don't worry though, there's tons of them up on the surface. Besides, you still have your knife, right?"

Mathew just nods as he zips up his pack and slings it over his shoulder. He had handled guns before on caravans between protected stations, and he more than understood how much of a necessity they truly were. He only wished there weren't as many mutants on the surface as there were in the tunnels, though something in his head told him the opposite was true. Pushing past his friend with only a nod and slipping on the pair of gloves he had been provided, he began to think about this in a different way. Suddenly the thought of the surface frightened him in a way it never had before.

He slipped through the crowds of the station and listened to the conversations of those he passed by, hoping for some bit of distracting news or a story to get his mind off of how naked he felt. As he came into eavesdropping distance of one particular set of people, he listened more intently.

"So do you think anyone made it over there? You know, across the ocean?"

The other man in the conversation, the elder of the two, sighed deeply.

"No, I don't think so. Not too many places had defense rings like we did, I doubt they had enough time to act before they were gone."

Conversations about the old world weren't particularly helpful right now. As Mathew comes across another group he shifts his focus to them, thinking he heard something vaguely familiar.

"The Outworld? Nah, it's no better or worse than always. Why?"

One of the station residents was chatting with two scavengers? There was no way he was going to pass this up.

"I've heard stories of a new kind of mutant. Something more sinister than the usual filth."

The two scavengers glance at each other, amused expressions on their faces.

"Really now? Sinister how?"

The resident gulps and adjusts his glasses.

"They claim that these mutants do not physically attack humans. It is said that they attack the mind."

Mathew didn't have to listen in anymore, the two laughing scavengers gave him more than enough peace of mind. He wondered vaguely about what other stories he had heard of the surface which would soon prove to be false. As he walked up to the station gate, he assumed he would soon find out.

After a relatively short, but painfully hard wait, the expected knock came to the gate itself. The soldiers that guarded the station moved into position, readying their weapons just in case. Mathew's child like excitement returned, and as the gate slipped open he kept an eye on the stairs heading to the surface, and the light shining down on them from above. Anticipation began to flood his senses.

"Welcome back to Rector Station Mark. Will you be staying long."

The scavenger chuckled and pulled up his gas mask.

"Oh no, I was just picking up Mathew here. I'll be right back out, so keep it open for me."

The scavenger turns to Mathew with a smile and extends his hand in greeting. Mathew takes it without any hesitation, shaking it with great enthusiasm.

"You got your gear together, I see. Heh, no gun huh? No problem, there's plenty up on the surface. We'll just be playing it safe anyway, we aren't going anywhere I haven't scouted yet."

The officer in charge of the gate coughs loudly and Mark turns to him and nods.

"Alright then. Follow me, let's go."

Mathew had no words. He followed willingly, his pulse pounding with a deadly mixture of fear and excitement.

"Gas masks on."

Mathew brought out his gas mask and fit it over his face. This was it. This was really it. As they crossed the threshold to the outside of the gate, a shout forced him to stop and spin around.

"Mathew!"

He finds his friend standing there, his revolver in his hand, his father's revolver. Michael tosses it across the threshold, and Mathew catches it with one hand.

"Just be sure to bring it back in one piece!"

Mathew looks down at the well used and well proven weapon in his hand. It was a weapon with a true history, something that had been proven to cut through mutants and protect loved ones. All he could ever remember of it were the stories, seeing Michael's father clean and polish it, hearing of the times he had used it to save cartfuls of innocent children from certain damnation. It was almost all Michael had left of his father now, just this and the stories. Simply holding it in his hand was a great honor.

Mathew looks up to say something, only to see that ship sailing away. The gate to the station closed before him, and with it, the sounds of the station faded away. He was on the outside now. Truly, and totally on the outside.

"Mathew, come on, it's time to go."

Mathew turned towards Mark, who was stopped on the stairs. He only nodded and the two turned to continue their ascent. Each step brought them closer to it, The Surface, The Outworld, The City, The Wasteland. All of it was finally here. Mark stopped in the snow only a few feet ahead of the station stairs, staring out at the skyline of hollowed out, mostly collapsed, twisted and burned hulks. A second later, Mathew joined him.

"Well, this is it. The dead city. New York, circa 2033. Welcome home Mathew."


End file.
